


Cold Hands, Warm Hearts

by FinAmour



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bearded John Watson, Blizzards & Snowstorms, First Kiss, Fluff, In a cabin in the woods, Isolation, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining Sherlock Holmes, Quarantine, Sharing a Bed, Snowed In, SocialDistancing, Soft John Watson, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, Vulnerable Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:35:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23486167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinAmour/pseuds/FinAmour
Summary: John, John, John. Why is it all he thinks about? From the moment John smiles at him and says good morning—with that oddly beautiful bit of scruff growing on his chin—to the moment they drift off at night.Yes. Sherlock is going mad, indeed. He tells himself it's cabin fever.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 44
Kudos: 362
Collections: A Little Hope





	Cold Hands, Warm Hearts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SensitiveDetective](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SensitiveDetective/gifts), [Tontonguetonks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tontonguetonks/gifts), [HollyShadow88](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HollyShadow88/gifts).



> This story was an experiment in interactive improvisation; it was written with live input from a small Twitter audience. 
> 
> I wanted to create an allegory based on our current global situation—for them to be quarantined, but without all the death and sadness.
> 
> The audience spoke, and we decided it would be a blizzard in the woods 😊
> 
> If you’d like to read the original version, including polls and commentary, check it out [here](https://twitter.com/fin__amour/status/1246512952141918208?s=21)!

Sherlock sprawls out face-up on the floor. He doesn't know how long he's been there; the days spill into each other and the winter sun lasts only a few hours.   
  
Three weeks, by his estimation. It's been three weeks since the blizzard; three weeks since he and John became stranded in this horrible cabin in the woods. Sherlock doesn't mind the isolation, of course—but he's on the verge of going mad.

He only wishes he had something to stimulate his brain. A new case, perhaps. It would be a welcome distraction from the only thing that seems to be on his mind: John Watson. At the moment, the only temporary relief is the annoying daily text message he receives from his brother.

John, John, John. Why is it all he thinks about? From the moment John smiles at him and says good morning—with that oddly beautiful bit of scruff growing on his chin—to the moment they drift off at night.   
  
Yes. Sherlock is going mad, indeed. He tells himself it's cabin fever.

"Hey, Sherlock." 

He flinches at the sound of John's voice—feeling guilty, as though John might read his thoughts.

"You've got something on your face," Sherlock responds listlessly. 

John glides his fingertips over the coarse hair on his chin. Sherlock tries not to look. 

"So you've said." John's eyes glimmer with amusement, but Sherlock definitely isn't looking, so he wouldn't know.

John regards him for a moment. "You're on the floor."  
  
"Very observant." Sherlock rolls over to his side, away from him. He knows he's being a brat, but he desperately wishes John would leave and let him sulk in peace.

He doesn't, though. Sherlock can still hear him breathing. And thinking. Ugh.

"Were you planning on staying down there for awhile?" John asks. "Because I had an idea of something we could do to fill the time."   
  
Sherlock's heart skips a beat. The two have spent nearly every day, alone, doing nothing. Sherlock has wondered when John would become bored of this, but in the past three weeks, the only thing he sees when he observes John is that stupid, beautiful smile.

Perhaps John is happy to be here, Sherlock thinks. Alone. With him.   
  
He certainly didn't seem bothered when the two of them arrived and discovered that there was only one bed in the cabin. He offered to sleep on the floor, but Sherlock refused to allow it.  
  
They're flatmates, after all. They've lived together in close quarters for over a year; he can handle John's sleeping body next to his. 

"Sherlock?" John asks, tearing him again from his wandering thoughts.

Sherlock finally rises from the floor. "Go on, then. What is your idea?"

John pulls a hand from behind his back, smiling mischievously. "Look at what I found in the cellar." 

It's a bottle of whisky.

Sherlock lifts an eyebrow at him. "Are you suggesting that we drink that?"  
  
John rolls his eyes. "No, Sherlock. I thought we could use it to make a tiramisu. Of course I'm suggesting that."

Sherlock crinkles his forehead with distaste. "Who knows where that bottle came from? Or who else has touched it?" 

His heart is tugging him in another direction, however. He finds himself longing to take a drink with John.   
  
But he's afraid of what he might do.

Because as confused as Sherlock is about whatever he’s feeling for John, there is one thing he does know:  
  
That every night, while they’re in bed, his fingers burn with the desire to reach over and touch him. 

And what would happen to them if he finally did? What would happen if the alcohol lowered his inhibitions, and he gave in to what he longed to do? If they fell into bed, laughing and tipsy? Would Sherlock wrap his arms around John's waist? Lay his head on his chest, his fingers crawling over his cheeks and though his soft hair?

It isn’t as though either of them can easily run off; they’re stuck here, stuck to endure the result of any embarrassing situation that may arise.

Sherlock hears John's footsteps across the floor as he walks towards him. He smells his musky John-scent, somehow lovelier than it was before being trapped in a tiny cabin for three weeks.

He kneels down next to him, setting a hand gently on his shoulder. “Sherlock?"

Sherlock's throat goes dry. He can't remember a time since they've been here that he's felt John's touch.  
  
"What?" he asks wearily. 

"You really ought to get off the floor," he says in a soothing voice. "You've been sulking for days now. As your doctor, I worry."

He squeezes his shoulder. Sherlock's pulse quickens. 

"I think a drink might be good for you, Sherlock," he concludes. "It would be healthy for you to relax and have a bit of fun. Besides..." he pulls himself from the floor. "That floor must be murder on your spine."

Murder, Sherlock thinks. God, he misses murders. 

"Fine." He exhales, adjusting himself to a seated position. "I'll drink with you."

And although he's afraid, he feels a tiny grin on his face. "...but only because I wouldn't dream of going against my doctor's orders."

And there it is again; that stupid beautiful smile.   
  
“Shut up,” Sherlock says.

John’s mouth falls slightly open. “I didn’t even...”

Sherlock hushes him, pulling himself off the floor.

“Let’s go,” he says. “I happen to be a fantastic bartender.”

***

Soon, their drinks are mixed and their glasses are filled. Both have been made with meticulous care, taking into account factors like weight and height and what they've eaten today—to achieve the most satisfactory blood alcohol levels. 

In other words, John will be drunk.

Sherlock doesn't think he'll mind. This was his idea, after all. And Sherlock’s mixed his own drink to give himself no more than a pleasant buzz. There will be no touching tonight.   
  
Unless John does the touching first. The words cross his mind, unbidden, as the two men raise their drinks.

"To being isolated together, I suppose," Sherlock says as they clink the rims of their glasses together.   
  
John grins. "Join me on the sofa?"

Sherlock's heart skips another beat. "Of course."

John's smile fades abruptly, and Sherlock senses that there's something he wants to say.

"You know, Sherlock....I-" His voice is soft and careful, as if he knows he won't be able to take the words back.  
  
"Yes?" 

They lock eyes, and Sherlock can feel the blood rushing to his cheeks. He hopes it's too dark in the room for John to notice. 

He needs a stiffer drink.

"I know that it's been a long three weeks," John says. His eyes fall to the floor, and Sherlock immediately misses that soft blue gaze. "But I don't think there's anyone else I could have done this with. If I had to be isolated with someone, I'm glad it was you."

Sherlock feels as if the air has been knocked out of his chest. He blinks at John, quietly stunned. He wants to say something in return, but never in his life could he have prepared himself for this.   
  
His lips part, but his throat is dry, and no words come out.

"Right." John nods stiffly. "I'll just head over to the sofa, then." 

Sherlock wants to kick himself. No. John regrets what he's done, all because Sherlock was too awkward to reply. 

"Me too!" He nearly spills his drink as he whisks himself across the room to join John.

John falls onto the sofa; his body still tense. He takes a swig of his drink before setting it onto the side table.   
  
"John." Sherlock hovers over him timidly, unsure of whether he's welcome to take the seat beside him. 

John looks up. Stupid beautiful smile. He pats the sofa. "Sit."

Sherlock carefully sits—but he doesn't sit too close. He doesn't want to make John more miffed than he already is. 

"What's the matter?" John chuckles. "Do I smell bad? I’ll be honest; I can't even remember the last time I had a regular shower schedule."

"A bit," Sherlock remarks. "But that's not unusual."   
  
"Stop it," John replies with a grin. "At least I haven't taken to spending my days on the ground like some wild animal." 

The awkwardness has passed. Sherlock feels a huge wave of relief.

And so they drink, and laugh, and drink, and the night flies past them.

***

It's the best evening Sherlock's had in a long time. With every breath of laughter, every word that comes from John's mouth, he feels a rush of affection.  
  
Sherlock is happy, and he's warm. He decides it's the alcohol flowing through his veins, although he knows John is to blame.

It's not until John is carding his fingers through Sherlock's hair that he notices how small the space between them has become; and he doesn't notice how drunk they both are until he's letting him.   
  
"That feels amazing." He sighs happily, leaning into John's touch.

John, continuing to let his fingers drift over Sherlock's scalp, lifts his other hand and places it softly onto his cheek. 

A shiver runs through Sherlock's body at the sensation of John's hands on him. It's like nothing he's ever felt. John is warm. John is soft. John is safe.

He gives himself over, his eyes drifting shut, head spinning, body melting into John’s.   
  
And then it happens. John presses his lips to his, timid but purposeful.

Sherlock's arms are suddenly at John's waist, and he's pulling him in, kissing him earnestly in return.

John's face burns against his cheeks as the kiss quickly steers from delicate to possessive. He slides his strong hands down Sherlock's back, tucking them behind his legs and lifting his body to his.   
Sherlock sinks into his lap, clinging to his chest and kissing him amorously.

Short breaths come between kisses; between happy noises and the tiny murmurs of each other's names. 

The room grows warm; warmer than Sherlock can stand, and he finally pulls back from John to take a moment to breathe.   
  
“Wow," John exhales. "This is...erm..."  
  
"Fantastic?" Sherlock offers.

"Amazing," John adds. "Brilliant. Sherlock? Why have we not—“

"Done this? In three whole weeks of being here?"

"Well, yes. But long before that, even."  
  
Sherlock looks down at John's chest, rising and falling. "I didn't realise it was an option."

"Me neither," John confesses. "We are idiots."  
  
Sherlock stares at him quietly. "Yes. But John, I think I've come to the conclusion that I—“

"Sherlock, I—“ 

They both say it at once: the three words that Sherlock never, ever, ever thought he would say.

Sherlock bends downwards to kiss him again, but they're both smiling so wide that the attempt is wildly unsuccessful.   
  
After clumsily bumping noses and dissolving into laughter, John presses his forehead to Sherlock's.

"Sherlock," he says softly. "May I take you to bed?"

“Of course,” Sherlock responds, raising a suggestive eyebrow. “But we’ve gone to bed together for the past three weeks, you know. Shall I expect this to be different?”  
  
John smirks, strengthening his grip on him. Without warning, he spins their bodies, pulling him from the sofa.

“John!” Sherlock can’t contain the gasp that escapes him as he clings tightly to John with every limb.   
  
“Tonight will be different.” John lowers Sherlock so his legs are around his waist. “As will every night hereafter.” He firmly kisses Sherlock on the mouth. “I hope you’re okay with that.”

“I...” Sherlock savours the taste of John’s lips. “I am. Yes. Very much. As long as it’s alright with you.”  
  
John continues to kiss Sherlock soundly, not stopping for a single breath as he carries them to their bedroom. It’s all the answer he needs.

They fall into bed together, just as Sherlock dreamt they would. There is touching, and kissing, and heat, and sighs of adoration.   
  
There is John and there is Sherlock, and there is love. In a small bed, in a small cabin in the woods. In a sleeping world which has become unfamiliar in the weeks gone by.

But the time will soon come when they will be allowed to enter the world anew; and it will be as beautiful as if they were seeing it for the first time.  
  
Much will change, but much will be the same. 

Whatever happens, he finds comfort in knowing he won’t be going out there alone.


End file.
